


Where our hearts hunger

by Remarque



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 06:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7563715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Remarque/pseuds/Remarque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>uuugh</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where our hearts hunger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thehotnerd](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehotnerd/gifts).



Markus sat in the high-backed, high-sided chair that had become nearly a permanent place of residence since his dreams began to get worse. If he thought the lyrium gave him nightmares, the lack of it only made them worse.

He saw her face nearly every night lately; frozen in time in a scene he didn’t even remember witnessing. He wasn’t even sure he did but his mind conjured up some morbid scene to replay in his conscious every night.

The rumble of the demons roar would reverberate through his very core. The shriek being just a little too human to forget that a mage had been there moments before. A promising mage though he couldn’t remember his name. There were too many of them and he didn’t make it a habit of getting to know them personally. Cullen warned against it frequently.

“Caution is your best defense; neutrality is your best offense. Neutrality keeps your head clear and caution keeps you, and those around you, Templar and mage, safe.  Mages are not your friends, they’re your duty. Treating them with neutral caution is the only way to ensure you are always in control, and you should /always/ be in control. You must.”

Cullen didn’t give the speech terribly regularly, but when he did, the fire in his eyes made Markus remember and take it to heart and even now he struggles with letting go of the facade. He had wondered what Cullen had felt like in the tower during the blight, and after the Harrowing, he had a small taste of it.

The scene that played before him haunted him like he knew the vision haunted Cullen. He heard agonized screams, the crackle of magic buzzing around the room. Shouts from the survivors, from Greigor and Irving. He always tried to will his body to get up, to keep fighting. To save whom he could. But without telling it to, his head would always roll to the left and see her laying there. A pool of blood would be slowly be growing underneath her, her head, pristine, looked over at him. He would see his hand having reached to her before he awoke, her fingers entwined with his. That is, until her body started to sink into the growing pool and from it, a demon rose, cackling at him. He would try to scream, try to roll away but at that point his vision would grow black and fuzzy and he would usually awake soaked in sweat, or tears, and throat dry.

That was only one of the horrors that plagued his nights. It took on various forms. Sometimes Ellana would be the failed mage. Sometimes she would be the one lying next to him. Every time he was equally as helpless and equally as frightened.

He shook the thought from his mind, and the movement disturbed belle enough to chastise him lightly as she sat curled in his lap. He looked down at the growing kitten and gave her a few light strokes. She usually always came to comfort him if ellana did not. Tonight, he was glad the girl slept on.

Markus’ eyes wandered from the purring cat to the bed, the dim firelight barely enough to help his poor vision see her cocooned into the blankets. His heart always softened when he watched her sleep. The peace she seemed to be in helped him to settle down.  He often reflected on what had changed in him. What had made him disregard Cullen’s teachings and warnings, letting this blatantly powerful mage into his heart and “cloud his true Templar judgement”. He recalled the phrase and it almost made him laugh in its irony.

He didn’t want to admit it. He pushed it further and further down, refusing to think about it but he knew what he felt. This is how it was supposed to be; ellana and him, together. It was never going to be Haddie even if she had lived. He hated to think about it that way but despite his love for her, the friendship that ran as deep as dwarven cities between them, it never would have worked as lovers. He knew that was what part of his guilt stemmed from. He was young, and they were so close, everyone joked about it all the time anyway, he just figured it was the natural thing to happen next. He welcomed their relationship, and enjoyed it, her affection and doting. He had refused to acknowledge it at the time but there was always something holding him back. The more he meditated on the feeling the guiltier he felt about it. He realized what he wanted was what she and luka had had. They were so close they were nearly the same person sometimes. He wanted in on their closeness, so because he couldn’t, he decided to pursue a route Luka could not. It was a terrible and childish motive and it made his stomach churn when he realized what he had done. He would never admit it to Luka of course, but it would be a long time before he was able to put the guilt behind him.

 His regret is that perhaps she would be alive if he hadn’t tried to push their relationship so far. Whoever scheduled the Harrowing wouldn’t have thought it a comfort to put them in together and it would have been someone else. He didn’t wish death on his comrades, but he knew his selfishness would pick another sacrifice every time if he had to.

Perhaps the Maker held him back so he would be able to move on. He would have had no reason to leave Kinloch had it not happened. Ellana and Junko might have died when Hercinia fell. He would never know he was a prince, though that, he snorted, he could take or leave at this point. No, he felt resolute; he was on this path for a reason. One of the few things he took comfort in, he called to himself now. He mumbles in the stillness, needing no page or refreshing glance to help jog his memory. A verse he has said many a time, usually a desperate cry, now a comforting hymn as he gazes at ellana’s peaceful form.

“How can we know you? In the turning of the seasons, in life and death, in the empty space where our hearts hunger for a forgotten face?”

He removes belle from his lap slowly despite her sleepy protests.

“I have faced armies with you as my shield, and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except your absence.”

He pushes the warm covers back, the radiant heat from her magic greeting him beckoningly and he has no will or want to turn from it.

“You have grieved as I have. You, who made worlds out of nothing. We are alike in sorrow, sculptor and clay, comforting each other in our art. Do not grieve for me, maker of all. Though all others may forget you, your name is etched into my every step. I will not forsake you, even if I forget myself…”

He scootches down into the bed with her, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close, pressing his lips to her head lightly. She cuddles into him despite the grip of sleep on her and he is comforted enough to close his eyes once again.

“I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling, I step forward, in darkness enveloped. I am not alone. Even as I stumble on the path with my eyes closed, yet I see. The light is here…”


End file.
